Crossfire
by TheSmartAlec
Summary: Dead Men Tell No Tales, after all. Rated M for strong language, violence, and substance abuse.
1. Chapter 1

**_A/N: This is the first chapter of a little experimental thing I'm working on right now. Sort of an "SBSP BLUE" sort of thing where Spongebob is a CSI or something. Anyways, enjoy and REVIEW._**

**_PROLOGUE:_**

_Robert Hyde, better known to the world as "Spongebob Squarepants" , sat in the life-saver chair (a going-away gift from the last episode of his show) in his modest two-story house, awaiting the arrival of a crew from "the other side". Everyone Robert knew was frightened, even his stern friends from around the block._

_Visitors? From the other side? This had never happened in the history of the town, maybe even in history of the Pacific. To tell the truth, Robert felt that they had somewhat of a right to be afraid. He didn't know who the glad-handlers were. They may be approaching him to put himself on another piece of merchandise, and if that occurred, Robert had only one short and sweet phrase he had planned in reply:_

_"Go fuck yourself."_

_He smirked at how great that line would sound surrounded by humans, and a part of him hoped he had a chance to use it, but at that point, a knock resounded over his metallic door. Robert stalked over to the door, taking his sweet time, before taking a breath and opening the door._

_A man in a see-through cellophane like device attached to a rusty oxygen tank grinned back to him. "Robert Hyde." he said in a hollow voice, greeting him like a old friend. He held out his wrinkled and well-tanned hand. "Matthew Harrigan, foreign correspondent for NBC Nightly News." He took his hand and shook it briefly, the cellophane feeling oddly peculiar against his spongy flesh. "Pleasure, Mr. Harrigan." he said wearily. They stood for a couple seconds before the sponge decided to break the ice. "You'll want to come in, then?" he asked. Harrigan laughed, creating breath against his cellophane shield. "Of course. Sorry for making you wait." He walked, followed by a camera man and a boom mike operator, which were all covered in their own cellophane suits. Robert shut the door._

_The crew sat in a sofa while Robert moved back to his chair, which was directly across. "So," Spongebob asked, eager to get this over with quickly. "Are we rolling?" The cameraman tapped a couple buttons, then said with a smile to him, "We are now." Robert felt somewhat disturbed. These men were treating him like the retarded character he had played on television for thirteen seasons, that terrible period before he had found his true calling, and it had always been a death wish to mention that terrible "past life" anymore. "All right." Robert said, deciding to get this out of the way. "Whaddya got?" Harrigan looked squeamish. "Well, the main reason we're here is due to a tip from your co-star on that classic television show, Patrick Star." he started, not looking away from his eyes, then after a short pause, said "Is that really his real name?" The cameraman zoomed the camera in on "Of course not." Robert said. This man was already coming across as an incredible dullard. "He's already a starfish. His parents wouldn't call him that. His real name is Richard Patton." Harrigan made a quick note on a small notepad he'd taken out of one of his pockets along with a pen, and carefully wrote down a note._

_"Interesting." he murmured, then when he finished, he looked back up and continued. "Well, it's come to the attention of the people above the surface that you've made a name for yourself not only as a children's icon, but as a law enforcer." Robert nodded his head. "That's correct."he said. Harrigan continued. "Well, NBC Nightly News wants the exclusive story of your first case. So, if you will for us, please begin." _

_This made Robert almost yell at Harrigan. That suit-wearing bastard came into his home and was telling him what to do. He almost told him and the other cellophane bitches he brought with him to get the fuck out. But...he couldn't afford another media snafu. It was this or nothing. _

_"Fine." Robert said, trying to keep the anger out of his voice. "Here goes."_

**A/N: Smart Alec sez "REVIEW! AND WATCH OUT FOR THE NEXT CHAPTER!"**


	2. Chapter 2

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: Well, to anyone who's actually reading this, I'm beginning to break ground with this one. I'm having a blast writing this, and who knows, this thing may turn out a bit intelligent. Oh, and if "Tampon Masturbation" is reading this, you should notice a little wink to one of your stories. Enjoy and PLEASE REVIEW!!!**

**DISCLAIMER: This fan-fic is not meant for children. It contains very strong language and strong violence (and possibly more in later chapters). So don't say I didn't warn ya.**

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Robert had not woken up that morning to a foghorn alarm clock (which in his opinion was one of the more trite gags on the show), but to his own internal clock which was ticking away like there was no tomorrow. He had trained himself to waking up around 8:15 or 8:30 in the morning after 13 years of shoots and the make-up chair. But today had seemed different without the prospect of work ahead of him. He had felt like something was missing. Now, that wasn't to say that he missed the show, Christ no. He had wanted that show cancelled after he'd seem his face on the plastic surface of Spongebob brand chopsticks.

No, not again. _Never_ _again._

He got up and took a shower (it would've taken hours to describe the physics behind this, so Robert didn't even attempt to explain), then he went into his living room. The art-deco charm that surrounded the architecture was a great companion in itself, even when he was alone like this. He had turned on his LCD television (equipped with a Laminex Electric Shock absorber) and was immediately assaulted with advertisement upon advertisement. It felt Robert feel sick to his stomach, seeing all this corporate greed splattered upon the satellites and cables. This was why Robert didn't watch television alot, but without anything to do at this time of day, what else was there to do? He finally got a decent news channel after five minutes of channel surfing, where a fairly large-breasted trout spoke of relations between those on dry land, and how they were dipping down at an alarming rate. Then, completely out of the blue, she spoke of Robert being "the ocean's main ambassador to dry land", which apparently led to humans thinking we were retards. Robert turned off the television after this remark. "Motherfuckers think it's my fault," Robert muttered, hands running through the small stubs of hair on his head. "Look in a fucking mirror." The phone (also equipped with a shock absorber) rang out, and Robert picked it up somewhat more aggressively than normal. "Hello?" he inquired. "Hey, Robert. How ya holding up?" the gentle voice of Richard Patton asked. "I've seen some better days." Robert asked, getting up and beginning to pace. "I bet." Richard said. "You watchin' the news?" Robert tensed up all over again, as if he had just woken up from my bed. "Yeah." he said. "Cocksuckers think they can say anything, can't they? They just can't look at the big picture." Robert started to chuckle. "Boy, if Nickelodeon could hear us now..." he said, already feeling better. "Fuck 'em." Richard said simply. "We have other talents, you know. We didn't have to cater to those mindless kids." "I know, I know." Robert said. "Listen, I-I could really use some company today. You think you could round up the gang, catch some lunch at the usual spot?" "I got 'em on speed-dial. I'll see what I can do." he said, and after saying those simple goodbyes, he hung up. Already feeling better, Spongebob changed into a simple sport-jacket and a black pair of slacks and made way for the small cafe down the block.

Robert sat in a small booth at the simple American cafe known as "The Galley" to the players of the Spongebob Squarepants variety hour. He downed his first scotch within five minutes and was setting his order down for a second when Richard walked in, with Roseanne (better known as Sandy) and Charley (better known as Squidward) nipping at his heels. "Hey there." Robert said. "Mornin'." Richard said. "You look good." Roseanne said, smiling her trademark polite smile. She wore a smart blue blouse and a "Thanks. I do try." Robert said, his wit beginning to return. "Did you order yet?" Charley asked, fiddling with the buttons on his trenchcoat. "Nothin' except this." Robert said, signaling the scotch in his right hand. "Scotch at 1:00 in the afternoon?" Charley asked. "And I thought I was going through withdrawal from work." Robert looked around, counting the familiar heads around the booth. "Hey, where's Pete?" he asked, failing to see the crab in his sights. "Couldn't get a hold of him." Richard said. "Tried his cell, tried his home phone, tried everything." Robert shrugged. "Whaddya gonna do, huh?" he said, sipping on his scotch. "I'm just glad you're all here." They ordered the usual, Roseanne with her salad, and Richard with his patty melt. "I don't know why you're all stressing." Richard said in between fairly large bites of his sandwich. "I made enough money off of that bullshit merchandising to live for a good thirty years." "Sure, we all did." Roseanne said. "I think we all just feel empty without having something to occupy us. I've been feeling that for a good four months. I've been on Prozac prescribed by my doctor." "That's a shame." Charley said. "I've been writing some stuff recently. Been working on a script." "That's a great idea." Robert said. "I've been jotting down some ideas recently, mostly about Hemingway, Steinbeck, just great writers. I'd love to do a biopic on that." Richard laughed. "You..as Hemingway. Whoo boy, what I'd pay to see that." They all laughed. It was their first time together since the interview via satellite on the Tonight Show. It'd been fun, speaking to O' Brien. Robert personally wanted Leno, but you hafta work with what God gives you, I suppose.

They all split the bill and went seperate ways once more, and Robert's empty feeling didn't return until about two hours after that, when Robert was listening to his old Hall & Oates records in abandon. Seeing Charley and Richard and (most of all) Roseanne again gave him hope for the future again. Gave him something other than spending his royalties. But when they disappeared, the hope went away as well. It was remarkable. _She's a rich girl, and you gone to far, cause you know it don't matter anyway... _Robert was grooving on the sounds of the album. He hadn't touched it since around 1990, when he was still an innocent actor on the prowl and the casting couches. _You can rely on the old man's money, you can rely on the old man's money, she's a bitch girl... _The phone began to ring again. Robert paused the album and picked it up. "Yeah?" he asked the caller. "Aww, _fuck_man. It's Richard." Richard said in a panicked, shaky yell. "Richard, what's going on?" "Neptune fucking DAMN IT." he cursed away from the phone. "I'm at Pete's house right now." Richard said. "Yeah, and?" Robert said, coaxing him on. "Yeah, and...shit man. He's dead."

Robert almost dropped the phone. "What the fuck did you say?" Robert said, now his voice beginning to shake. "Pete is dead." he enunciated. "I came to his house to check on him, he still hadn't called back, and I found him dead. He was bloody and gutted and...oh Jesus, you gotta come down here." Robert was wincing and shaking his head, his mind unable to comprehend what was going on. "Riddle me this, Richard." he said. "Did you kill Pete?" "What the fuck are you saying?" he asked, enraged. "You think I killed my friend? I loved Pete, I would never kill him." Not sure what to believe anymore, Robert made up his mind. "Fine. I'm on my way. Call the gang." He hung up, and with his silk robe still on, he rushed to the Prius in the driveway and made his way to Uptown, the residence of Peter Edmunds.

**A/N: PLEASE REVIEW!!**


	3. Chapter 3

**DISCLAIMER: This fan-fic is not meant for children. It contains very strong language and strong violence (and possibly more in later chapters). So don't say I didn't warn ya.**

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Robert had burst the wooden door of Peter Edmunds considerably large townhouse (his Mr. Krabs character never pulled in the big bucks due to a lack of commercial appeal) and found Richard pacing in the alcove of the living room. He was accompanied by Charley, who either seemed to sad or disgusted to speak, as he simply stared at the marble tiles on the floor. "Robert!" Richard said, running. "Oh, thank God! You're here, oh man. I don't know what to do right now, I'm in a clusterfuck right now and--" I put a hand up, signaling for him to shut up so I could think. Robert sighed. "Where's the body?" Robert asked, not wanting to believe that Pete was dead. "In the living room." Richard said. "I checked the area for a gun or something, no such luck." Robert went into the living room, with Richard trailing behind him. He went past Pete's coffee table, which had always seemed beautiful when Robert had come over for a party..but it wasn't today. Not with about two cups of blood soaking into its paneling.

Right next to the table lay Peter, his vacant, souless eyes focused on his stucco ceiling. The face that had snapped at him in that grumpy so many times on camera was currently dead and gone. The rest of his body was no better. Richard was right, someone had really gone to town with him. Crab meat was strewn all over the furniture, the walls, the lazy-boy, nothing could've been salvaged. And yet, those eyes...so peaceful. The face probably made Robert the most sick of all. The body he could somehow deal with, even with all the blood, but with the eyes, the nose, the gaping mouth seemed to scream "Everything is not okay. You guys are fucked." Robert threw up in his mouth a little bit, but forced it back down. "You okay?" Richard said, putting his hand on his shoulder. "Yeah..I think so." Robert said, turning away from the body. "Why didn't you call the police?" "Are you crazy?" Richard asked. "Calling the police with Peter's blood in my hands and all that? I'd probably be burning in Hell before breakfast tomorrow." Robert's eyes then turned to Charley, who still stared into space, communicating with God knows what. "Is Charley okay?" Robert asked, concerned. "I..don't know." Richard said uncertainly. "As soon as he saw that body he wouldn't say another word. Probably in shock for all I know." Robert walked out of the living room, the smell of blood beginning to make him even sicker. "Charley? Hello?" Robert said, snapping his fingers inches away from Charley's face. "He's dead." Charley muttered matter-of-factly. "Yes, I know that." Robert said, hands running through his hair again. "But, are you okay, Charlie?" "He's dead." Charley muttered again, as if trying to convince Robert. "You're not gonna get shit outta him." Richard said. "Let him be." And Robert oblidged. At that moment, the familiar goldfish-bowl head of Roseanne popped through the door. "Patr--I mean Richard." Roseanne said, that upset, worried tone cutting through his well-being like a steely knife. "What's going on? You said something about Peter?" "Umm, yeah.." Richard said, hesitating. "He's..in the living room." Roseanne went in the general direction..and then a scream echoed through the sensible house. Even Charley snapped out of his chaotic stupor . "Ohmigod." she said, beginning to break down. "Richard, why the fuck is Peter_ lying dead on the carpet_?" "I don't know!" Richard said honestly. "I just found him like that about twenty minutes ago! I don't know anything--" "Yeah, you don't know anything. Bullshit!" Roseanna snarled. "You killed him, you killed him." "Alright, you listen to me, you little bitch. You say that one more time and I swear to fucking God, I'll--" "Enough!" Robert yelled, sick of the yelling. The place went quiet as Richard and Roseanna stared at him. Robert was never one to yell or get angry, he was just..neutral. That was the only word you could really use to describe his personality.

"Alright." Robert sighed after taking a couple very deep breaths. "Here's what I think. At this point, we shouldn't call the police. Because if we do, they'll ask what Richard was doing here and all the evidence would point to..." Robert gulped, not wanting to think about this. "However, I still think we gotta find whoever did this to Peter. He was a great man, great character actor. We can't let this go unnoticed." "Definitley." Charley muttered. "But if we're gonna figure this out, we're gonna have to play this straight. From now on, this place is a crime scene. You don't touch anything you don't need to touch, and gloves must be worn at all times." The guys nodded. "Secondly, we need a list of suspects. People that didn't like Peter, people who had a bad history or encounter with him. Charley, you can do that." "Okay." he said simply, getting up." "We also need to look for evidence. We need to check that living room over and over again until you feel like you have fuckin' OCD. Got it?" They nodded.

"All right." Robert said, putting on a good pair of gloves he picked up from his coat pocket. "Let's go to work."

**A/N: The Smart Alec sez "Give A Hoot! Review" and watch out for the next chapter.**


	4. Chapter 4

**DISCLAIMER: This fan-fic is not meant for children. It contains very strong language and strong violence (and possibly more in later chapters). So don't say I didn't warn ya.**

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The clique scurried in different directions all over the house within seconds. Richard headed for the kitchen, wiping droplets of sweat off his brow. Charley headed up the heavily carpeted stairs. "Probably a phone book or note up there." Charley said, his eyes still bulging a little bit from his sockets. And Roseanna headed into the living room, apparently ready to examine the body. Robert simply stood in the middle of the room, taking this all in. As of 8:37 p.m pacific time, he was leading an organization of neatly placed...well, not "vengeance". That was much to strong a word. He supposed "crime-fighting" would fit into that particular space, but who was he? Fucking Spider-Man? "Hey, Robert." Roseanna called from the living room. "You may wanna come in and check this out." _Aw, screw the word_. Robert thought. _Damn the torpedoes and full speed ahead_. He went into the room.

Robert did not appreciate being called into see the remains of Peter again (the stench coming from the body would've made anyone's stomach turn), but he knelled beside Roseanna, who's gloved hands were running over the skin of Peter's neck. "Whaddya got?" Robert asked. "I just found this interesting. Might help us find something out." Roseanna said in a preoccupied voice, and she extended Peter's lifeless neck, showing Robert deep small divots. "Hickeys?" Robert said curiously. "And judging from the texture and moisture on the divots, they're fresh too. Probably not even two hours old." she said, now examining his arms while Robert stared at her, amazed. Roseanna had never been the intelligent type, usually keeping her Southern hick character off the camera as well as on. "How do you know all of this?" he asked. "I minored in forensics. Class of '86." she said, blushing. And there it was. That strange sexual tension surrounding them seemed to spark, with the simple talking point of..rotten dead co-worker's body. That little exercise in perversion snapped Robert out of his stupor. "Hey, Rob." Charley said, a small black book clutched in his tentacle. "Look that entire bedroom down, all I found was his little black book." "May I?" Robert asked, but he didn't intend to wait for a response. He simply took the book and began to finger through the pages. There were only four numbers in the book, all of them on the fourth page. Curiously, one of them at the bottom was crossed out in a charcoal pencil. "Strange, innit?" Charley asked. "I wonder what the crossed-out number is." Robert mused out loud. "Possibly the number of a suspect." Charley suggested, and then he began to chuckle. "I'm sorry, I- I mean, this just feels so much like those crappy CSI shows they make on dry land. Right down to the dialogue. It's almost unbelievable." Robert pointed stiffly to the Peter's body on the floor. "Believe it." Robert said, a stone-cold expression almost frozen on his face.

Robert had never seen anybody sober up as fast as that in his life.

After searching the house for any other clues available (read: none), they all went to Robert's house to call the numbers in the book. Only while driving back to Robert's house in the 'burbs did they realize they probably could've called from the house. "I don't want to stay there to long." Robert said, his hands on the wheel. "If the neighbors see us walking into his house every hour, someone'll get suspicious. From now on, we only go in short intervals at night." "Probably a good idea." Richard said. "I'll be damned if I'm going to jail." They got to the house, Richard ordering a pizza from Rafael's while Robert called the first of the numbers. He made sure to put it on speaker-phone: Charley was in charge of taking notes for the whole affair. Robert pressed the numbers of the dial and in a couple seconds the phone rang. Charley picked up the fountain pen intently. It took about three, maybe four rings before..

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_"Hello?"_

"Good evening, Ms..." (Robert chanced a glance at the black book.) "Melendez. This is Robert Hyde. I'm investigating cases on behalf of a Mr. Peter Edmunds, and we stumbled on your number in his black book. May we ask you some questions?"

_"Certainly."_

"Thank you. What was your relationship with Mr. Edmunds?"

_"I was his housekeeper for 2 and a half years from 2003 to 2005."_

(Manic scribbling courtesy of Charlie)

"I see. And..what were your feelings towards Mr. Edmunds?"

_"I was..paid to like him. My feelings for him were always neutral._

"What was your salary like?"

_"I'm sorry?"_

"What was your salary like, m'am?"

_"I'd prefer it if we didn't discuss this information over the phone. Perhaps we could set up a meeting."_

Robert said that would be sufficient and she gave him her address (which was a condominium if Robert wasn't mistaken) and then he hung up. Charley suggested that they call another, but Robert vehemently declined. "We are going to take this one step at a time." Robert said. "I don't want this case to be too cluttered." "Fair enough." Charley shrugged, and he stowed his noted in the right breast pocket of his shirt. After a couple minutes, the pizza arrived. They devoured the food quietly, occasionally speaking to put in a quip or a possible suspect. Other than that, Robert was depressed all other again. And to think that just this morning, the presence of these people delighted him and gave him hope. Then, with the slash of a knife (well, from the looks of it, a fucking buzzsaw), that entire ray of hope was going, going, gone...Everyone left not long after eating, leaving Robert alone again. But this time, with a morbid sort of hope. Well, he certainly had an occupation after one day, but he had no experience, and the smell of rotting crab meat was not one of daises or forget-me-nots. Unless playing "Retarted Sponge with incredibly strong Gay Overtones" was part of a normal detectives experience. But, just before he drifted into the deep world of R.E.M, he found that after the man (or woman) who killed the loving spirit of Peter Edmunds was headed for the chair, he may have a new future on the horizon after all.

**A/N: Wow, did this chapter suck! Sorry about that. Please REVIEW anyway, I'm really stuck in a rut.**


	5. Chapter 5

**DISCLAIMER: This fan-fic is not meant for children. It contains very strong language, strong violence, and substance abuse. So don't say I didn't warn ya.**

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_He had a fucking nightmare._

_Robert jumped up from under the covers about in the middle of the wee ol' hours of four in the morning, wheezing like Seabiscuit after catching that white rabbit at the end of the tunnel. His pores were all plugged with cold sweat, and just out of that funny emotion we call curiosity, Robert checked his pulse and, sure enough, it was pounding at such a rate it probably could have lit half of San Fran. Robert could not even remember the bulk of the dream that had made his pulse jump to 179, but he remembered how it ended; Peter (complete with a bloody, gaping hole in his chest) shooting Robert right between the eyes, blood trickling down into his open mouth. Robert's stomach turned with the feeling one gets when riding on a sailboat, and he reached on his bedside table for the closest liquid he could find._

_A simple, elegant bottle of warm Heineken._

_He downed it in a hearty, refreshing gulp, setting the bottle back on the table. Then, without so much as a warning from the cosmos, the phone rang. Surprisingly, Robert reached for it only about half a second after the first ring. "What?" Robert said, smacking his lips and adding saliva to the sour taste the beer had presented him with. "So, you're still up too." Richard wheezed over the phone. He sounded sick. In fact, he wouldn't be surprised if Richard was by the toilet right now, doing it Lupe Velez*-style. "Yeah. Slept for a bit before I woke up." Robert explained. "Lucky bastard." Richard said. "Haven't slept a wink. Every time I closed my eyes..."Richard trailed off, but Robert filled in the gaps. He and Robert had always seemed to have a sort of Mad Lib-esqe form of conversation. "Listen, I've been thinking." Richard began anew. "Maybe we should go to that Mexican chick right now." Richard sat up. "Are you out of your fucking tree?" Richard asked. "This is a group effort, Richard. We can't just go over there. What if she's the killer? What's stopping her from taking a luger and splattering your mind all over that stucco?!" Robert shuddered, remembering the dream. "Ah, but what if she's not the killer, Robert?" Richard blared in that murder mystery radio show style that made him laugh. "What if she was simply a foil, a con artist from beyond the border brought to the land of opportunity to--" "Fine, fuck." Robert cut him off. He was always something of a pushover. "You have the address?" "It's right on my end table." "Alright, I'll see you in a few." "Remember, Robert: Dead Men Tell No Tales." _

_The phone line clicked in Robert's ear._

_Robert dressed as well as he could, still feeling groggy from the preceding events of the evening. He picked a worn black cardigan (it was about 32 degrees Farenheit tonight) and a pair of Dockers that lay dormant and the back of his closet. It was now 5:27 am, the sun was still taking its first tentative peeks over the horizon, and Robert turned the key in the ignition of his car. It sputtered, then relucantly gave life to the engine. It took about nineteen minutes to reach the womans apartment building, which was located by the 47th Street Theater, which usually offered exploitation at its worst, usually Russ Meyer films. Robert found parking around the vicinity and began walking at a brisk walk towards the address. For some reason, Jim Croce was on his mind at the particular moment. His trembling temor echoed in the altars of his mind. _

_"You don't tug on Superman's cape, You don't spit into the wind..."_

_Robert snuck a peek at the address; sure enough, the old (and recently painted) Pickwick Arms, a brownstone which dated to the 1940s, was his destination. He went through the plate glass door with no security._

_ "You don't pull the mask off the old Lone Ranger, and you don't mess around with Jim."_

_ He got out of the elevator, finding Richard standing by the woman's door. "There you are." Richard said in his casually anxious tone. "I didn't want to go in there myself. Who knows what that Mexican woman has in there." Robert glared at him. "You are the biggest xenophobe I have ever had the displeasure of meeting." he said. "Hey, I'm not thinking for myself here." Richard defended himself. "Who's gonna finish the case if we're bleeding into this carpet?" "Charley and Roseanne, I expect." Robert said. Richard opened his mouth for a retort, looking awfully like a befuddled Patrick, and closed it. "Fuck you." he said simply. "Good comeback." Robert egged on, and Robert knocked on the door._

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**A/N: The Smart Alec sez "GIVE A HOOT! REVIEW!" and keep your eyes peeled for the next chapter.**

_** *Look 'er up, kids!**_


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